


Emergency

by samchandler1986



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bedroom Talk, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Ghosts, Marriage Proposal, pure fluff, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor’s definition of an emergency does not match Clara’s.<br/>(Written for the Whouffaldi S9 countdown challenge)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Emergency

“Clara? Clara? Clara!”

She opens her eyes to find him standing over her, beaky nose about six inches from her own.  

“Too close, Doctor,” she says, screwing up her face and yawning. He withdraws obediently, still staring down at her from height. She briefly debates the merits of trying to explain why looming over her like this is an unacceptable waking strategy, but decides to cut her losses. “What time is it?”

He gives her a disgruntled look. “How can I possibly answer that?”

She raises a finger. “How much time has passed since I went to bed?”

“Better,” he retorts, checking his watch with a flourish. A show, a sham; she knows he could tell her with absolute accuracy without any sort of chronometer, but she lets the theatrics pass without comment. “It’s been about four hours.”

“Four. Hours.”

“Yes, give or take.”

“Doctor!” She sits up, and he retreats to the safety of the foot of her bed. “I remember, _very_ clearly a conversation about human sleep patterns.”

“Uh, yes,” he says, not meeting her eyes, “But it’s an emergency, you see.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t hear the Cloister Bell.”

“She doesn’t ring that for _everything_ ,” he retorts, and she marvels at how similar this two-thousand year old alien sounds to her teenage charges back at school. “Only things that directly affect the TARDIS.”

“In which case,” she says, sensing victory, “It’s not an emergency that can’t wait until I’m awake.”

“No-”

“Shut up, you just said yourself ‘ _How can I possibly answer that_?’” He raises an eyebrow at her poor imitation of his accent, but she is warming to her topic now. “If we’re outside of time, you can sit and do repairs, or read a book or-or… _self-pollinate_ or whatever it is you do when you have time to kill by yourself.”

His mouth hangs open, planned retort forgotten. “Self-pollinate?” he says, looking genuinely disgusted.

“Forget I said that bit,” she replies, putting a hand to her forehead.

“ _I’m_ not some grubby species that-”

“Yes! Fine! Okay. Emergency. Go.”

He shakes his head, clearly unwilling to let her flippant remark slide. “Yes. Important. Emergency thing that…Er.” He looks thoughtful, tongue sticking out as he struggles to think.

“You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?”  

“No.”

She folds her arms, waiting for his eureka moment.

“Emergency,” he repeats slowly, as if the word alone can jog his memory. “Yes! That’s it. You’re my wife.”

There is a beat of total silence. His hands are spread wide in dramatic flourish, a slightly manic expression beginning to slide into confusion as she stares.

“Not my _actual_ wife,” he continues, licking his lips nervously, “A pretend one.” He drops his hands, fiddling with the bottom of her duvet for a moment, before glancing back up to see if her expression has changed.

It hasn’t.

He coughs. “You know, now I think of it… A-hem. Maybe I will just go and-”

“Stop,” she commands. “Explain. Why am I your pretend wife?”

“Didn’t think you’d agree to be my real one,” he says quickly; the strange staccato delivery of something _he_ thinks is obvious, but the rest of the universe needs explaining.

Silence balloons again. “Um,” she manages, deciding to steer clear of the perilous chasm _that_ particular statement opens up. “Okay. But why do you need _any_ sort of wife?”

“Because I may have… accidentally invented one.”

“ _Why_?”

“I want to go and see the Sixth Church of the Rangooth. There’s talk of ghosts. An evil presence.” He flaps his arms, more than half a cadaverous ghoul himself. She’s tempted to join him now, in spite of her annoyance. Still, there’s such a thing as going down fighting.

“So _go_ , why drag me into this?”

“Sixth Church is only open to those who are bonded,” he explains with a shrug.

“You can’t get in as a single-rider?”

“Nope.”

“Huh. That’s a bit… weird, isn’t it?”

He make a strange noise, somewhere between a sigh and a childish blown raspberry, as if the endless complexities of the vast array of humanoid cultures spread throughout the galaxy have long since ceased to surprise him. Or so she imagines.

_I’m so going to regret this._

“Go on then,” she says.


	2. Bickering

“What?”

“Nothing.” She resumes staring out of the window as the shuttle pod takes them from orbital station to surface. The windows are tinted, but the fire of re-entry is still bright enough to make her squint.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he says, scowling at her from his seat across the pod.

“I just-” She stops, wondering how best to phrase her unease. “Leaving the TARDIS behind. It’s never a _good_ idea, is it?”

“It’s a sacred site. They want to control air traffic.”

“I know, I know…”

“Look, if you want to go back−”

“I didn’t say that.” They both know she never will.

She scratches at the intricate design the Doctor has applied to the back of her hand absentmindedly. The same artwork adorns his left hand too, currently resting on his knee; bouncing up and down as he struggles to contain his enthusiasm for their latest adventure. “Try not to fiddle,” he says.

“It is going to come off, isn’t it?” she checks.

He glances down at his own tattoo. “Probably.”

They land with a slight bump, curtailing their argument as the door hisses open on hydraulics. Three figures await their arrival, grey-robed, grouped on the edge of the landing pad. They are humanoid − two arms, two legs, one head − but that’s where the similarity ends. They put Clara in mind of Cycladic statuary; sinuous limbs of worked alabaster; faces like pieces of carved jet atop improbably long necks.

Unperturbed by the dichromic giants, the Doctor steeples his fingers and bows his head; clearly a formal greeting. She hurriedly copies the gesture. The three aliens respond in kind.

“Welcome travellers,” says the tallest of the three, voice high and soft. “We trust your journey was pleasant?”

“Uh, yeah. Fine thanks.”

“I am Triptych Xae,” continues the alien. “We are most grateful for your prompt response to our advertisement. How should we refer to you?”

“I’m the Doctor-”

“Doctor Spengler,” she cuts in, “And I’m Doctor Venkman.”

His mouth twitches violently, but he manages to bite down his reaction to her joke and maintain a professional veneer. He grabs her tattooed hand, a little more roughly than is strictly necessary, holding their matching designs up for approval. “Yes, and we’re definitely bonded, look.”

Triptych Xae nods, seemingly pleased. “The Church awaits,” he says. He gestures with one sinuous arm to a pathway, cutting through the woodland surrounds.

“Well, we… um. Yes. We best get started. The Church has been cleared of all faithful, I assume?” the Doctor blusters.

“It is quite empty, we assure you.”

“Good.”

He picks up the enormous leather carpet bag he has bought along for the trip, for reasons as yet unexplained, and sets off down the path. She has to almost jog to keep up.

“What?” she asks, not quite able to keep the smile from her face.

“Doctor _Spengler_?”

“Hey, you’re the one that woke me up to respond to an _emergency-_ ” Her fingers mime quotation marks around the word. “-that was actually a job advert for paranormal exterminators the TARDIS stumbled across.”

“I get the reference,” he replies irritably, “Ghostbusters, the original movie. Haha, very funny. But _I’m_ clearly Venkman.”  

She stares at him, in genuine astonishment for a moment. “How can you _possibly_ think that?”

“He’s the good-looking, funny one,” he continues, “And the leader.”

“You are…” she huffs, “… trying my patience today, Doctor.”

“I know,” he grins, “It’s more like we’re _actually_ married this way, isn’t it? With the bickering.”  

She sighs, unable to frame an adequate reply. The Sixth Church of the Rangooth appears around the next corner; a welcome distraction. At least, she assumes it’s the church. “Is this it?”

“Yep,” he says, stopping to drop his bag and rootle around inside for various electronic components.

“Definitely Spengler,” she mutters, turning her attention to the exquisitely carved columns of the front portico.

“Here, hold this.” He hands her something that looks a bit like a miner’s lamp, if Davy had been into more of a steam-punk aesthetic.

“What is it?”

“Our canary. Put it in the presence of a nearby pocket universe and it should sing. Well, flash and beep.”

“You think there’s another trapped time-traveller here? Like at Caliburn House?”

“What?” he snaps.

“Emma the psychic? Alien creature looking for his mate?”

He gives her a blank look. “Not ringing any bells.”

“I guess not,” she says, a little sadly. It’s easy to forget, of course, that there’s almost a thousand year gap for him between their adventures now and then.

He packs up his bag and they stroll towards the church steps. The air smells of pine and new growth, birds flitting between the vine-wrapped pillars. The overall impression is one of woodland idyll rather than paranormal mystery. It is hard to imagine _any_ kind of ghost in the dappled sunlight.

“So, tell me Doctor. Why is it we have to be married to come here?”

“Well, the Rangooth are a very conservative people. The erotic carvings are seen as unsuitable for those who aren’t bonded to look upon.” He waves a hand at the wall art, which seems to show pairs and occasionally triplets of long-limbed and utterly androgynous figures, mostly holding hands or giving one another back rubs.

“Yeah, it’s uh, graphic stuff.”

He gives her a withering look. “Shut up.”

“Whatever you say, Egon.” 


	3. Haunting

It is cool inside the temple. The golden stone walls glow faintly and the air smells sweet with incense, as if they are inside a honeycomb. Every ten feet or so is a rounded intersection of corridors lined with small, opalescent stones; like the eggs of quartzite sold in geology museums and tourist shops. Clara raises her hand to touch the shell of one.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” he says.

“Why?”

“They’re soul stones.”

 “What’s a soul stone?”

“The Rangooth are mildly telepathic. They wear those stones from the day they’re born to the day they die. They think a part of themselves is absorbed into it as a result.”

“And is it?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

She puts her hand down. “Can you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Cocking her head, she tries to isolate the noise. “Like a…a whispering sound. Or maybe birds flapping their wings?”

“No.” He gives the pocket-universe detector a shake. “Nothing from the canary.”

“I can definitely hear something-”

The whisper becomes a sudden roar, one that he can now perceive.  A gust of wind rushes down the corridor, flapping his coat, whipping her hair around her face.

“Spooky,” he observes. She remains silent, unmoving. Unusually slack-jawed, even for a human. “Clara?”

“You will address me as Her Most Royal Highness Queen Illyria, Imperial Ruler of the Rangooth, Lady and Protector of the Sixth Faiths, and Empress of the Silvered Moon,” she replies imperiously, before clocking him so hard on the chin he passes out.

* * *

He opens his eyes to the golden glow of a honey walled prison and a dull ache in his face. Wincing, he opens and closes his mouth a few times, clicking his stiff jaw. Who knew Clara had such a great right hook? Sitting up, he takes in more of the details of his new cell, actually a simple section of corridor sealed by doors at either end.

“Clara?” he tries, just in case. There is no reply.

 He drums his fingers, thinking. He vaguely remembers Queen Illyria; merely the studious daughter of a minor noble house when they met in a previous life. It had been quite a surprise to learn, on his return to the TARDIS, that she would grow up to lead the Rangooth Empire throughout an arguably successful but brutally expansionist period of its history. Encountering her _now_ is even more of a surprise, not least because she’s been dead for four hundred years.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” he reiterates to the empty corridor. But if not a ghost, what else can have imprinted on Clara so strongly as to overwhelm her personality and induce her to punch him in the face? _Wait, scratch that last part._ No malign influence has been required in previous instances of Clara slapping him, after all, unless he counts himself.

He checks his pockets. She has taken the sonic screwdriver, but left him with a cigarette case containing two sticky jelly babies and his yo-yo. He eats one of the jelly babies, deciding to save the other for emergency rations should they be required. Licking the sugar from his fingers, an idea presents itself. He taps his way along the corridor walls, searching for convenient false panels or secret passages. No such luck. On a whim he tries the nearest door, just in case. To his surprise it opens soundlessly under his fingers.

 _This_ room looks almost like an office, with a neat desk and chair proportioned for the long limbed Rangooth, and a small computer moulded into the table. Presumably even priests at the Sixth Church have paperwork. He presses the power button on the machine and it brings up a connection to the Rangooth Central Core.

< _Query?_ > prompts the helpful computer.

< _Information: Queen Illyria_ > he types.

A series of links are immediately listed; pages of official history, offers for tours of her various palaces, scholarly articles and similar. The top ten are all more recent news bulletins, however. He clicks on the topmost link.

< _Queen Illyria’s Soul Stone Recovered!_

 _Thought lost for centuries, the Soul Stone of divisive Cadmusian ruler Queen Illyria has been recovered from an unmarked grave by local archaeologists. The find is the culmination of decades of work by scholars of the Third Art Consortium, solving an enduring mystery over the disposal of her remains after assassination by rival and successor King Encheleus_ …>

He scrolls down quickly, scanning through various subsequent headlines.

< _Killer Queen’s Burial Wish Granted: Public Outcry Over Divisive Ruler’s Reinternment at Sacred Sixth Church._

< _Illyria’s Soul Stone: Location Within Sixth Church Made Secret After Vandalism Attempts._

 < _Secret Love of an Evil Empress? The Story of Queen Illyria’s Illicit Affair With Plebian Jove Kiassus – The Reason for Her Sixth Temple Burial_. >

“Hmm.” He shuts down the stories with a flick of his finger, fumbling the yo-yo out of his pocket without thinking. Up and down it goes as he stares off into the middle distance, considering his next move.

< _Information_ :> he eventually types, still working the yo-yo with his other hand, < _Location: Soul Stone: Jovian Kiassus._ >


	4. Urgency

_She is waiting for him, as he knew she would be, at the Altar. She has found robes to dress her strange new body; they trail on the floor behind her like a child’s._

_“You found me.”_

_“Yes, your Highness.”_

_“I knew you would. The owner of this body had absolute faith in her friend’s abilities to locate you.”_

_“The priests set a complicated puzzle,” he agrees, “But the Doctor cracked their code.”_

_“Does it hurt?” So much mercy in those alien eyes. Too much. Illyria was never known for her compassion. An echo, an amplification perhaps, of the creature whose face she is wearing._

_“No,” he answers honestly, “The host is willing to share.”_

_Illyria shakes her head. “Mine was too, at first. She felt a kinship with me. She too had a great love taken from her, before its time.”_

_“Yet no longer?”_

_Illyria shrugs. The movement looks strange on her tiny, stumpy form but he recognises it nonetheless. “She would prefer I didn’t re-establish my House, my Dynasty, using her face.”_

_“She’s right,” he says heavily; the words are both his and the host’s._

_“I demand vengeance!” she snaps. “They took you from me… and they killed me.”_

_“And they lived and died and were buried, and their Soul Stones were eventually smashed by your descendants when the world turned and your House Cadmus ascended again. This host has seen the history books. Illyria, our time is over. The world has changed. All that remains for us now is peace. Not revenge.”_

_“No,” she says, “No I cannot-”_

_“Then I will go,” he says simply, “I will walk back to the hidden place where the host found me and I will go back to the Sleep of Stones. You will never find me again. And I will free this host and he will return for you. Believe me. That face you wear is of great value to him. As precious as I once was to you. Do not underestimate the lengths to which he will go to drive you out, and return that body to its rightful keeper.”_

_Something strange is happening to Illyria’s borrowed face; it is leaking from its ridiculously bulbous eyes._ Crying _, supplies the hidden host part of himself,_ She’s crying. _Illyria’s sadness materialised as falling drops of rain. How beautiful; how strange._

_“Jove, no. You don’t understand-”_

_“Illyria,” he says softly, “I_ always _understand. I just never cared for your noble blood feuds and dynastic infighting. I only wished to love you. In the end that was my undoing.”_

_More raindrops fall. “I missed you. I conquered worlds in your name, after they took you.”_

_“Then come home,” he says simply, “I am here and there are no worlds left between us.”_

_He holds out his arms. They are too short, he thinks, as she crosses to him. Ridiculously short. But her body is similarly disproportioned, and has to stretch to find his fingertips. Her forehead comes to rest against his. It hurts his neck to crane like this, the Soul Stone at his throat hanging too high. Something is not right; this most intimate of poses does not fit these strange little bodies. The familiar cold and hard lines of her form are gone, replaced by gentle curves. He almost shudders at the clammy warmth of her touch, but some other part of him anticipates this alien heat and softness. Enjoys it. The host, he realises: this is pleasurable for him._

_He brings his mouth to hers. This gesture has no equivalent for the Rangooth but he senses it is meaningful for their borrowed bodies. The Soul Stone slips into the hollow of her neck as they embrace, knitting their strange little figures together in a better fit. He ignores the disgust a dwindling part of himself feels at the movement of their mandibular parts against one another. Instead, he concentrates on the joy being in her presence freights; of the great love that she bears for him. They are together at last; he can feel her all around him, forever, and really that is all that matters…_

The Soul Stone is warm against his neck, refilled with the essence of Illyria and Jove. He really should be returning it to the secret hiding place of the priests, where hopefully they can rest in eternal bliss together and not cause any more paranormal distribances. Rather distractingly, however, Clara is still kissing him. Even more perplexing: he is kissing her back.

“Clara,” he manages to rasp, before she recaptures his mouth insistently. His fingers knit into her hair and she grabs a fistful of his shirt before he manages to try again. “Clara!”

This time he pushes himself away from her, gasping in spite of his respiratory bypass system, for reasons he isn’t willing to speculate about.

“Doctor!” she says, smiling at him. “Thank you. I _knew_ you’d figure it out-” She takes his face in her hands and resumes kissing him.

“Mmmph,” he manages, pushing her away again. “I’ve remembered another reason they insist on visitors to the Sixth Church being bonded.”

“Oh?” she says.

“Aphrodisiac in the Altar room,” he explains, “I don’t know how long you’ve been in here, but probably long enough to notice some effects.”

“Oh,” she says again. A slight colour creeps into her cheeks.

“Yes. Um. So, you know. Hold on to that-that thought and… get back to me once we’re away from here if you still feel…. Quite as… keen…”

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”


End file.
